#youre out collecting wood for a nice cozy fire and then BOOM

[sbeana]

local teen repeats cycle of grief after just starting to recover. more at ten

[thiswasinevitableid]

for the meet ugly prompts: sternclay, 78, sfw pls!!!

78: I run a YouTube channel where I talk about different things and one video is on the topic of an immortal creature / piece of history and you track me down to tell me how inaccurate it all is.

Stern finishes his notes, shuts his laptop and pushes in the chair at the little desk. Rain patters on the cabin roof, making for a singularly cozy scene with the fire in the woodstove and the tea steeping on the counter. 

He can’t believe his luck in finding this place; he’d assumed his trip to the Olympic Peninsula would involve solely sleeping in tents in the rain. Which he’s prepared for, but it’s nice to have the spot of his longest stay be indoors. 

The vlog’s been getting a ton of attention on the trip, which is good news for him; turns out doing the legwork to tell something other than the same four Bigfoot anecdotes is popular with large chunks of the internet. 

He does a crossword as he finishes his tea, changes into his sleepwear and climbs into the queen bed; the owners must assume it’s couples who rent this space.

Yeah, right, like Stern is going to have a boyfriend any time soon. 

Turning off the lamp leaves him with just the light from the smoke detector and the nearby clock radio for company. Lord, he didn’t mean to stay up until 1 am working. Again. 

Snuggling down under the covers, he coaxes his mind in the direction of picturing a hot tub and someone rubbing his shoulders. It immediately veers back to two of the stories he collected last week, both about more...alarming Bigfoot encounters. One in which Bigfoot broke into a trailer, leaving the owner cowering in the bathroom while he trashed the place. The other about Bigfoot stalking hiker in the woods, staying just out of sight but growling constantly. 

Then there are the disappearances, but there’s not actually any solid evidence tying them to the cryptid. It’s as he’s reminding himself of this that he rolls over, eyes opening long enough to glimpse something moving outside the rain-streaked window.

He shuts them in a hurry, takes deep breaths to calm down. He’s seen deer all over the place today, that’s probably what that was. 

Knock knock

There is no way on gods green earth that he’s opening that door. 

Knock knock.

The odds of that being someone, or something, that wants to hurt him are much higher than those of it being someone in need of his help. 

Knock knock. 

He holds his breath, listens for footsteps. Instead, the doorknob clicks side to side, jiggles when whatever's out there finds it locked. Thank fuck for the deadbolt.

Crack

Both bolts splinter the wooden frame, and a figure that has to duck to enter the cabin steps through it. It has fur, it’s eyes reflect the light he shines from his phone onto them, and it has very, very big feet. 

“Fuck.” He whispers, pressing against the backboard. 

“You’re Joseph Stern, right.” A deep voice rumbles. 

He nods, finding the fact that Bigfoot is talking to him calming rather than perplexing.

“Thank fuck, ‘cause this was gonna be really awkward otherwise.” He shuts the door, slides the nearby bookshelf across it as if it weighed nothing. 

“Close the blinds.”

Stern reaches up and pulls the cord, sending them down. Fumbles in the dark, eyes on the shadowy figure as he tries to find the lamp switch. He hits it just as the cryptid reaches the foot of his bed. Bigfoot blinks, squinting, then crosses his arms. 

“Okay buddy, we need to talk.”

“About….?” 

Bigfoot gives him a look of barely-concealed exasperation, “about the videos you’ve been making. You got a bunch of stuff wrong.”

“I did my research.” Stern adjusts his blankets with a huff, is forced to do so again when Bigfoot sits down on the bed.

“Yeah, from sources that are full of shit.”

“That’s--” he raises his hand to object, then stops, “that’s actually fair. I, um, I have to hit a certain video length for each episode, so sometimes I include anecdotes that have little to no corroboration.”

“Like the trailer story?”

“Damn it, I should have trusted my gut on that one. It was the vocalization description, it sounded wrong.”

“Yep. Kinda surprised you missed that, you’re usually pretty sharp.”

“I can’t tell if that’s a compliment.”

“It is; I watch your videos, you’ve got a pretty good B.S detector.”

“How-”

“I don’t actually live in the middle of the woods. I have a house, with wi-fi, and I like to keep tabs on people who are investigating me in earnest. I’ve been following your channel awhile. I like it. But you keep getting things wrong and it bugs me, so grab something to take notes on.”

Stern flops and rolls to the edge of the bed not occupied by Bigfoot, pulling his field notebook and a pen from his backpack. As he rolls back, he catches Bigfoot staring at him, then looking away sheepishly. 

“Okay, I’m ready.”

“You’re, uh, you’re taking this fairly well.”

“Why shouldn’t I be? I get to interview fucking Bigfoot. This is a dream come true! Plus, I no longer thing you’re going to kill me. Wait, are you?”

Bigfoot shakes his head, “Nope. And that’s correction one; there have been zero cases where I or my kind have killed anyone. We, uh, tend to come down pretty hard on any of our kind who try to go after humans.”

“And by your kind, you mean other Bigfoots, or cryptids in general?”

“Both.”

“Got it. Wait” he looks up, frowning, “how am I supposed to cite you in these corrections without exposing you?”

A shrug, “just call me a ‘bigfoot expert.’ And, uh, you, specifically, can call me Barclay. Now, mistake two: look at my arm.” He holds his right arm out and Stern obediently stares at it.

“What color is that?”

“Reddish brown?”

“Right. Not black, not white, not grey. Touch it.” 

Carefully, Stern runs his fingertips up Barclay’s forearm.

“It’s so soft.”

“Damn right. None of this ‘coarse chunks of hair’ bullshit. When this comes off it stays soft. And I’m the only one of my kind who’s been on the west coast in a decade, so any hair that isn’t this color can’t be tied to a Bigfoot sighting. You can stop petting me, y’know.”

“Oh, sorry.”

“Right, problem three--uh, fuck, hang on, I forgot what I wrote.” He lifts his other arm and Stern sees something he missed in his earlier terror blindness; a pouch hanging from his wrist, from which Barclay produces a tiny notebook. 

“Okay, so, the noises thing, you’ve got about half of them right…”

Stern spends an hour and a half diligently taking notes. When Barclay finally flips the book closed, the cryptid yawns, showing sharp teeth.

“There, that’s all of it. Now I gotta head out, I got places to be in the morning.”

“Wait, what about my questions? I, um, I have a whole list of them for if I ever meet a cryptid in person.”

“How could you possibly have more questions after that.”

“You underestimate just how much time I devote to my work.” He finds the page, turning his notebook around. 

“I...holy shit, did you organize these by cryptid?”

“Yes, since every cryptid is different, you each get your own question list.”

“Look, Joseph, I’m happy to answer them, but I wasn’t kidding about needing to be somewhere in the morning.”

“Oh, um, of course. Honestly I just thought you wanted to get away from me; I know I can be a bit of an overly curious nerd sometimes.”

“I like it. But-”

Thunder booms right above them and Barclay yips like a wounded fox, flinches when lightning follows on it’s heels. 

“Fuck, I was hoping it’d just rain and nothing else.” He growls when lighting flashes again. 

“I have to admit this is not a fear I expected you to have.”

“Lightning starts fires, and I got caught in more than one in my early days, and thunder, well, it sounds a little too much like gunshots for my taste. Had plenty of those directed at me too.”

“Oh, Barclay, I’m so sorry. Um” he casts around for something comforting, “if, if you’d rather not go out just yet, you can stay here. I promise I won’t ask more questions and just let you sleep. And, um, since it might take too long to get the fire going again,” he holds up the blankets, “you can sleep here. If you want.”

It’s a ridiculous suggestion, and he sees disbelief on Barclay’s face. Then it dissipates as Barclay looks him up and down, scooting to join him under the covers, mattress protesting every movement. When he lays down he’s so heavy the bed dips, sending Stern rolling without warning and landing against his side with an “oof.”

“Sorry.” They say at the same time

“It’s alright, big guy, you’re actually very comfy.”

“What did you call me?” Barclay chuckles, pulling the blankets up around them.

“Guess I’m tired too, getting a little loopy.”

“And cuddly” Barclay smiles, sending a pointed glance at Stern’s arm (now draped across the cryptid’s stomach) and cheek (now resting on his chest).

“Shit, sorry, I can-”

“S’okay” Barclays arm loops over his shoulders, “never held a human like this. It’s nice.” 

Another boom of thunder and he winces. Not knowing what else to do, Stern pets his belly soothingly. After a moment, his arm is vibrating.

“You’re purring.”

“Notrrrrr arrrrrrr wordrrrrrr” Barclay snuffles the top of his head but doesn’t stop him, and so he keeps rubbing his belly until he feels some of the tension drain from Barclay’s body.

“What do you like to do? For fun, I mean.”

“Like cooking” Barclay murmurs, “getting a human disguise was nice, ‘cause I didn’t have to worry about getting fur in the food.”

“Human?”

“Long story, but the upshot is any cryptid who’s been here awhile gets there hands on a charm that makes them human when they wear it.”

“Huh. Um, what do you like to cook best?”

“Hmmmmm. Well, pie is satisfying, but I also like making ramen, because there’s such an art to it....”

Stern snuggles closer, sighs as Barclay absentmindedly pets his back, and drops off some time later to the sound of that lovely, deep voice telling him all about dim sum. 

He wakes up to an empty bed, which isn’t a surprise. His missing notebook, however, is a surprise indeed and an unwelcome one. After turning the place upside down, he admits defeat; Barclay must have changed his mind and decided to remove what evidence he could of their conversation. 

Stern grumbles all the way into town, decides hot breakfast might soothe his disappointment. He opts for The Lodge, just as he has the last two days, and Dani, the waitress, smiles at him when he sits down. She brings him coffee and a laminated menu, returns a few minutes later.

“The cook wants me to let you now we have a new special this morning; sourdough pancakes with strawberry-rhubarb compote.”

“I’ll have that.” He smiles, handing her back the menu. Funny, he was just talking with Barclay last night about how strawberry-rhubarb is one of his favorite flavors. 

The pancakes are delicious, and it’s only his manners that keep him from literally licking his plate clean. When Dani brings back his receipt, he’s mid-sip of coffee, and so doesn’t see what else she’s brought him until he sets it down.

Beneath the little black, plastic clipboard is his notebook. 

He picks it up, spots a cupcake shaped sticky-note sticking out that he didn’t put there. Flips to the page and finds his “questions for Bigfoot” now have answers in tidy, if a bit spidery, handwriting. At the very bottom of the page is phone number and the words, “I’ll answer your questions any time.” 

Next to the words is a heart that has clearly been erased and redrawn several times.

He laughs, pulls out his phone, and quickly enters the number.

---------------------------

Back in the kitchen, Dani flashes Barclay a thumbs up when she comes back to pick up an order. 

His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he steals a quick look at it, smiling when he sees the message. 

Joseph: You’re full of surprises, big guy. Dinner tonight?

Barclay: I’d love that. See you then.

[curious-minx]

Denis Leary is making an animated vignette series based on Dogs Playing Poker and 10 Other Pieces of Kitsch Art That Should Be Turned Into TV

KITSCH auction house tremors and stampedes.

Dennis Leary basically discovered sex, drugs and rock n’ roll with his 2015 two season FX series Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll. Leary’s always been one of those guys that can’t be beaten down  in spite of how dopey and cynical his edgy working class personal brand is. He’s got an entire deal set up with Fox, the flailing broadcasting company has placed all of their chips on a Denis with only one lousy  “N” in his name. I can’t even with this fake Irish Bostonian droid. Relish in the delicate thought process of Leary and leftover former Daily Show producer, Jim Margolis,  bringing up a Pinterest screen grab of the Dogs Playing Poker by Grand Master of Kitsch Cassius Marcellus Coolidge and money signs popping out of both of their heads. Here is a dramatic retelling of this thought process:

“Yo, get this Big D,” salivates the recently fired from Netflix Jim Margolis to Leary over a Zoom, “Fox got this Bento Box Animation Studio sitting around doing nothing but churning out animated interstitials for the Masked Singer, Paradise PD, The Prince, The Blues Brothers animated series, animated Harold And Kumar, Housebroken, The Great North, and ugh..um..Hoops..”

“I fuckin love Hoops, Jimmy! Why aren’t we pitching this on Netflix again?”

“Because Dogs Playing Poker is going to work so much better as pregame filler for live Sporting Events...on Fox.”

“Oh yeah. All of those rotten good for nothing grease monkey and lunch pail people will probably be giving each other Budweiser flavored Covid at the local saloon with these damn dog pictures hanging up. It’s like when old drunks would stay out late and watch the Flinstones at the bar, did you know that actual human male adults would sit in a town like Boston and waste away in a bar watching Flintsones. Can you believe that Johny?”

“My name is Jimmy, err Jim, but yeah Denis we’ll send you the scripts over. Any idea who we should cast?”

“Get me the hot blonde from Inspector Gadget 2, God dammit I miss Louie..are we sure we can’t get Louie back on air?”

“Afraid after Patton Oswalt dognapped his role from him in Secret Life of Pets, Louie CK has been banned from ever appearing as a talking dog again.”

“So bogus. Bobby Kelly will have to do.” Denis gets a text. “Dammit, Adam is getting all thirsty for this juicy  delicious bone. Gotta throw a  big bone to my dog Ferrera. Who else?”

“Ok. I’ll get one of those sad Daily Show losers. Um picking one at random, Roy Wood Jr. They’ll pretty much jump into anything, because John Oliver was in Love Guru they start thinking they can fail their way up.”

“I said no politics at the table! Paws off the table! This is going to be so fucking lit!”

////

Kitsch Art deserves so much more. George Lucas, retired American filmmaker, robber baron of childhoods and all around  mensch has been heavily invested in the kitsch art of Norman Rockwell. There are a bounty of stories to tell. Too many of them are far too white and basic, but there are rich narratives to be found in his out of date even for his own time romanticism of The Old Masters. Hopelessly out of date could have been a failing of Rockwell, but his politics grew progressive as his career went on and fought against the system. Cassius Marcellus Coolidge is the man that operated the first bank in Antwerp, New York  had the astronaut-like grace to wonder, “what if dogs played poker like people played poker?” A painting that dates back to 1894 used as means to sell cigars. What strikes me most about this painting is that they aren’t wearing clothes, but I bet when you try to imagine the painting you imagine these dogs fully decked out in some sort of work coat. There is a further anthropromized version of the ad called “His Station and Four Aces” that depicts a glimpse at a look at an entire canine furry society. His ideas of putting an animal in clothes remains to this day one of the most novel and surefire commercially friendly means of artistic expression. The original cynical man laughing all the way to the bank, his own bank that he founded to boot.

Seen above: An example of a Comic Foreground that also demonstrates the failings of having too few people in your party to properly partake in the comic foreground experience. 

“Cash” Cassius wasn’t the first man to imagine a domestic pet in people clothes, but he’s probably one of the few to do so with such commercial finesse. The man also at one point filed the patent on the “Comic Foregrounds,” which is the technical name of one of those carnival boards with holes to stick your head in. In post Covid times how many more heads will be salivating and rushing towards those holes to pop their heads in to create a lasting memory, if only for a second. So when I start learning more about this remarkable weirdo Cassius Coolidge, a man according to his official website dogsplayingpoker.com’s Biography: “Trying to chase mischievous boys from an abandoned house, he fell from a window and hurt his knee, leaving him injured for the rest of his life.”

Flash forward back to 2021 and Denis Leary and his career a man with a wikipedia with fun entries about all the accusations of plagiarism and hate speech against autism I start to worry about the legacy of more Kitsch art falling into the hands of other greedy and desperate TV executives. That being said if you are a greedy TV executive who happens to be a maniac that likes reading rando’s tumblr pages do I have a list for you!

TOP TEN PIECES OF KITSCH ART THAT SHOULD BE TURNED INTO SOME KIND OF SOMETHING

“We Are Having a Heavenly Time” Columbian Bike Monkey and Parakeet by, once again, Cassius Coolidge

Coolidge’s anthropomorphic foresight strikes again! This time he effortlessly establishes a captivating duo that could be easily voiced by an endless combination of celebrity voice actors. PAUL RUDD as “Monkey” and ISSA RAE as “Parakeet” present “We Are Having a Heavenly Time” present a travel show. You could basically use whatever leftover footage you have lying around from the many Conan O’Brien segments and plug Monkey and Parakeet and their trusty bicycle anywhere for an irreverent glimpse into the foreign World around us.

2. “Clown and The Girl” by Haddon Sundblom  

Now I know what you’re thinking, that title is miserable! I agree, but with a little  reverse engineering you get The Girl and Clown, which could be a whole new addition to the Girl on a Train, Girl with a Dragon Tattoo, Girl with a Dangly Earpiece, the Girl-Verse! The girl appears to be quite fearless of this clown, which is good because we need someone to be brave for when the clown takes off his mask.

Sundblom is also the original artist for the Coke a cola Santa Claus and how is it that we have gone this many rotations around the sun without a single Coke a cola Santa Claus special is the real reason why Christmas will always be the saddest time of year.

3. “Clean Your Fornasetti” based around the artistic Plate collection of Pierro Fornasetti 

Muk bangs, videos of people eating are a huge cyber traffic boom. People love watching people eat. Why not add the element of surprise by what kind of playful Fornasetti chanteuse is hiding underneath this plate full of gruel? Fornasetti is an artist with over 11,000 items created in his name and over 500 of them are based around a variety of expressions of a single woman. Clean Your Fornasetti is a deep and poetic rumination of the romance between the act of someone cleaning their plate and the reveal that the plate contained a visual feast all its own.

4. “Mickey’s Kinkade Playhouse” by the one and only Thomas Kinkade

The Kinkade Studios features over 63 “narrative panoramas” featuring Disney characters, but largely Mickey and Minnie, simply vibing. It’s time we stop pretending that small children like Mickey Mouse and market him for wistful older audiences that want to radiate in a nice long warm bath of color and sound. I am not sure I am even pitching an actual series but more of a Narrative Panoply. One thing that is missing from Disney Plus, and streaming services in general, is a severe lack of programming frills and flourishing. The iconic Adult Swim bumps are something completely lost to the dustbins of programming history left to remain in youtube compilations. Thomas Kinkade is a lot like Enya. Art critics treated him like a comedic punching bag for so long, but I doubt there’s an artist that grasps the kind of sterile enchantment people want after a long day of opioid benders. We’re all trapped inside doing puzzles why not do the bare minimum of slightly animating a pleasant scene of Mickey and Minnie roasting marshmallows or enjoying a breath of fresh Alpine air?

5. “Dust Lickers” by Odd Nerdrum

Quick! Get me Trash Humpers’ Harmony Korine on the Line Show him Shit Rock! The world of Odd Nerdrum is a harsh and primeval one that would make for an astonishing animated landscape. Odd Nerdrum himself feels like a worthy subject of some kind of documentary based around his imagery and insistence on making his art in the most arcane and old fashioned methods possible. Once again, maybe the visual world of Odd Nerdrum may not make for a full on narrative series, but once again would make for one hell of an animated segment.

6. “Homemade Pasta” by John Currin 

A cozy Queer slice of life cooking drama based around the two charming fellows of John Currin’s Homemade Pasta scene. A series of vignettes based around the completely unfabulous and domestic version of bliss that was denied many people as a result of the AIDS crisis. You can’t tell me you don’t see those two nice guys getting cozy and making pasta together and you aren’t dying to see how they go about rolling out their own focaccia bread.

7. “The Velvet Elvis” by the Collective Conscious 

David Lynch at one point in time was trying to crack into making his own Elvis biopic. I think it’s pretty safe to say that the age of a public wanting a David Lynch directed Elvis biopic has probably passed, but that does not stop Velvet art enthusiasts. TheVelvetStore.com is featuring a remarkable promo that could really bump up what a David Lynch Elvis movie could be like and the horror of having one’s soul trapped inside of a Velvet Elvis rendition painting seems like a pretty fertile place to begin a proper story about Elvis in America. 

8. “Big Eye Bunch” by Margaret Keane 

Yes, it was only a matter of time before Ms. Big Eyes herself, Queen of Kitsch, Margaret Keane would come up on a list like this. Tim Burton tried and sort of kind of captured what it so endearing about Keane’s work, but I think a fully animated dive into an orphanage full of sad Big Eye kids that time travel and meet other Big Eyed children version of historical figures is a Big Idea that could make a whole new generation keen on Keane.

9. “Banality” by Jeff Koons

An animated series based around the artistic sensibilities of Jeff Koons would be a tricky affair, but just the kind of gaudy whimsy that someone like Michel Gondrey could use to proper effect. A series based around someone trying to steal the fifteen million dollar Michael Jackson statue would also be appropriate.

10. “Groovenians reboot” by Kenny Scharf

Scharf is the only artist on this list that actually was a kitsch artist that caught the attention of early aughts adult swim. A tv show that only features the artistic sensibilities of Scharf but also a voice acting cast that consisted of Paul Reubens, Rupaul, Vincent Gallo, and Dennis Hopper. There’s also a theme song performed by the B-52s and musical direction by Devo’s Mark Mothersbaugh. One of the only known published reviews of the pilot describe the show as needing mind altering substances to enjoy and that it is essentially like “watching a cartoon reflected off of a funhouse mirror. This is basically a description of the modern tik tok addled twitchy type content that makes a killing on the Internet for millenial and zoomer types. Basically the whole aesthetic of a warped and broken looking cartoon is the exact sort of thing weirdos deep diving at youtube at four in the morning are looking for and seeing that this gets a failed pilot and Denis Leary’s Dog Poker vignettes get greenlit is exactly what’s wrong with the world.

[ellocentipede]

Bohemienne Life Summer 2020 Collection

Bohemienne Life makes beautiful wax melts, and I particularly love her summer collections. Many of my all-time favorites (Gallowglass, Little Witch, and Mermaid) were included in this sale, so I seized the opportunity to stock up for the year. These melts were purchased over the course of three different sales (a summer pre-order, a summer overstock ready-to-ship sale, and a small autumn teaser ready-to-ship sale), so I also have lots of samples to review!

Gallowglass

Scent description: A blend of bracing fresh mint and watery sea kelp, and full of salty air and driftwood.

I have a love-hate relationship with mint. There are a few perfume/bath and body houses that make mint scents that I love (like Arcana), and Bohemienne Life is one of them. Gallowglass is a really beautiful and refreshing scent that makes my home smell clean and peaceful. The mint really is bracing--it’s a lot like the bright, lightly-sweetened mint of candy canes. There’s a hint of ocean here, but this scent is all about the mint for me. I love this blend in the summer, but it would also be appropriate in the winter.

Rough Washed Linen 

Scent description: A combination of cashmere, amber, musk, and laundered linen to create that hard-to-capture aroma of warm rough washed linen.

I took a chance on this scent because it sounded so clean, refreshing, and interesting--and I’m really glad that I did. Yes, it’s a clean linen scent, but it’s also so much more than that. I swear that I smell a hint of orange here, but my nose could be playing tricks on me. The musk is beautiful--like a golden skin musk. There’s a very light hint of resinous, golden amber that elevates this linen scent to something very elegant and refined. I will very much enjoy melting this one and I hope that it makes an appearance again in the future!

Little Witch 

Scent description: Energizing potion of sage, soft mint, lavender, black tea and elder flowers.

I’ve reviewed this scent before along with Gallowglass (https://ellocentipede.tumblr.com/post/189723505153/bohemienne-life-spring-summer-2019), but it’s a favorite of mine and I thought that I’d revisit it again. This is a gorgeous mint tea scent, much like a smooth Moroccan mint tea. I always look forward to melting this one--it makes my home smell clean, happy, and refreshed.

Unicorn Sprinkles Cookies 

Scent description: Warm from the oven cookies, with fluffy Cotton Candy, Rainbow Candy Drops, Sugared Lemon with Unicorn sprinkles.

These really smell just like the description. There’s a base of sweet, warm sugar cookie, and it is absolutely coated in a thick layer of rainbow sprinkles, fruity gum drops, and clouds of pink and blue cotton candy. This is a really fun scent for the end of summer and the beginning of fall, and it’s making me wistful for fair season!

Bloom

Scent description: Neroli & shea butter.

This is a simple blend that is really nice for spring and summer. I’m a huge fan of neroli (orange blossom), but sometimes it can be a bit sharp and perfumey. The smooth shea butter takes care of that here--smoothing the edges of the neroli and creating a beautiful, smooth, waxy orange blossom scent. This is a very pretty and happy scent!

Zen 

Scent descrtiption: A blend of green tea, spearmint & Lemon grass.

This is a lovely lemony tea blend. I get lots of smooth, green tea, the barest hint of refreshing spearmint, and a slice of lemon floating on top. This is a lot like Little Witch, but with lemon instead of a hint of floral.

Mermaid 

Scent description: An intoxicating blend of fresh coconut, plumeria, lotus, driftwood, Ylang Ylang, freesia, fresh rain, lily of the valley, night blooming jasmine.

Mermaid is my very favorite ocean scent (at least in wax form!), and I was so, so happy to see it offered in one of the ready-to-ship sales. I’d been hoarding a sample of it forever, since Kyme said that she was no longer able to offer it due to not being able to source one of its ingredients. It’s possible that the scent used for this batch is the very last that she had, but I’m hoping that that’s not the case and that instead she’s been able to track down the ingredients again. Mermaid smells like sun-warmed waxy, tropical florals (I get more plumeria than anything else), Coppertoney coconut (one of my favorite scents in life), with a hint of dry, bleached driftwood and a nip of warm ocean rain. It’s gorgeous and has wonderful throw and longevity.

Raspberry Boom Boom

Scent description: Raspberries, white cake, cream cheese, rose, apples and amber.

Oh this is lovely. This is the ultimate foodie raspberry scent. The raspberries are ripe, sweet, and tart, and the cake and cream cheese are just right. This is definitely a foodie scent, but it’s not overly sweet thanks to the tartness from the raspberries. I don’t specifically smell the rose or apples, but I imagine that they’re rounding out the scent into something more refined than a simple “raspberry cake”. Really lovely--I’m so happy that I took a chance on this one.

Rose Quartz

Scent description: A refreshing crisp blend of lemon, bergamot, apple, Jasmine, cedar, orange blossoms, fern, white musk and amber.

Somehow this smells exactly like the feel of rose quartz to me--it’s bright, light, airy, and softly pink. It doesn’t really smell like the notes to me--it’s very well-blended. It smells like a light pink musk, a hint of orange blossoms on a breeze, and morning dew. A lovely, elegant, and calming blend.

Pumpkin Cake Pops

Scent description: Fluffy pumpkin cake doused in bourbon, then rolled in spiced cinnamon sugar.

This smells like bananas foster to me! It’s like caramelized bourbon sauce over warm banana pumpkin bread. This is a wonderful gourmand blend for autumn.

Voodoo Praline Cookie

Scent description: Aroma of rich salted caramel pecan pralines, butterscotch brûlée and soft warm cookies.

I fooled my husband with this melt--he thought it was an actual brownie! How gorgeous is this? The pecans look so incredibly realistic. The scent is wonderful. This smells like actual pralines. The pecan note is gorgeous and smells wonderful with the sweet butterscotch. This is one for the foodie lovers!

Samples generously included:

Blackberry Bay

Scent description: A blend of blackberry, bay laurel, spiced apple cider, oak moss & woods.

This is a fun twist on a blackberry scent! It’s like a warm, blackberry compote, not a fresh-off-of-the-vine berry. This compote is sizzling on a wooden kitchen table in a cabin in the woods. In the kitchen hang strings of dried bay laurel and bayberry wreaths. I would not have selected this for myself based on the notes, but if this available in the autumn pre-order I will definitely purchase more. It’s a really nice autumnal (and even wintery!) scent that’s not your typical apple-pumpkin-spice variety. A lovely atmospheric blend with hints of spiced foodie goodness.

Brigid

Scent description: Celtic goddess of fire as well as an Irish saint. Honey, juicy red apples, mahogany wood smoke, and sweet amber musk.

I would likely not have tried this on my own in spite of my fondness for Brigid--the apples and wood smoke notes would scare me off. I’m so, so grateful that Kyme included a sample in my order, because this is gorgeous and will be a favorite for me in the autumn and winter. I get a lot of wood smoke, but it’s surprisingly not harsh or acrid (maybe it’s the mahogany making it so nice and smooth?), but really warm, cozy, and inviting. The honeyed apples are both sweetening and perking up the smoke. A gorgeous atmospheric scent.

Half Baked

Scent description: A blend of Applejack, Whisky and mild Woodsmoke.

Holy smokes this is good. This is the ultimate autumnal wood smoke blend. I hope it’s offered again in the presale! This smoke is so smooth and gorgeous--it’s cozy and atmospheric. The apple jack is lightly spiced with cinnamon and complements the smoke beautifully. I love this!

Lavender Latte

Scent description: Fresh coffee is blended with coconut milk and lavender honey, served with a warm sugared beignet.

I tend to avoid coffee scents, but good gravy this one is gorgeous. It is the milkiest, creamiest, lovely sweet coffee scent ever. The lavender is the icing on the cake for me--it’s smooth and gentle and almost toothsome, like sugared lavender buds. A beautiful cozy and comforting scent!

Lemon Lavender Tea Cakes

Scent description: Sweet little tea cakes infused with bright lemon zest and herbal lavender buds, topped with a dollop of decadent sweet coconut cream and a steaming cup of tea.

Typing out that description made me hungry! I get lots of the bright, zippy lemon zest in this blend, followed by smooth, warm tea and a hint of cake and cream. This is a gourmand blend, but it’s really fresh and refreshing due to the prominence of the lemon. It’s really nice, and I imagine would be a crowd pleaser!

Pink Chocolate

Scent description: Fluffy chocolate coconut cake and pink sugar frosting.

This does smell like a white chocolate coconut cake! This would be great in a spring/Easter collection--it smells like a cake that would be in the shape of a bunny or lamb. It’s sweet, but not overly sweet--the mild and milky coconut tempers the chocolate and sugar. A super fun and happy scent.

Stache

Scent description: A blend of warm woods, supple leather, rich amber, and spices.

Ooooh this is a treat. This smells like a desert market--warm dry spices, hot sun, a hint of sand, rich resins, fragrant, precious woods, a hint of worn saddle leather. Utterly gorgeous. I will absolutely purchase this one if made available!

Bohemienne Life’s beautiful products may be perused and purchased at https://www.bohemienne.life/ 

[sugar-petals]

Fuckup Trucker (m)

pairing: rm x reader words: 5.1k — one shot  genre: winter au | smut, angst, action, fluff summary: Truck driver Namjoon crashes at your lodge by accident. Things heat up. warnings: surprise... this features dom!reader, sub!rm, cunnilingus, swearing, vaginal sex (protected), humiliation, multiple orgasms a/n: Reupload, tumblr deleted the old one. Enjoy trucker!Joon 😄

-----------

The icy road won’t let your shoes find any grip. One step, two steps, three grueling steps. It feels like moving backward. Each movement is ungrateful, much like the temperature at dusk that creeps into your limbs, further slowing down the walk. You remember Jin’s words at the gas station: Walk like a penguin and you won’t slip. It seems like the most ridiculous thing to do, but it works. There’s nobody else here to laugh at it anyway.

The subtle cracking under your boots becomes the only sound in the valley after the clattering noise from the last train to Juneau fades. The echo in these valleys can become rather strong if only one is just loud enough. But the silence is even louder, making every step eerier than ever. A brown dot in the distance comes into sight when the wind carries away some snow.

After the penguin waddles got you closer to the spot, a snowy roof appears from the blur of white.

You pat the small chest pocket of your coat twice. Yes, the key is still there. It takes some time until your efforts to free the lock from snow come to fruition. Then, you fumble at the chest pocket for what feels like two minutes because your gloves are too chunky to grab the key. It drops from your grasp right away.

You have to collect it from a heap of virgin snow that keeps moving under the heavy wind. It’s too much for the gloves to handle. Eventually, they become wet at the fingertips.

You should have listened to wise Jin. He said that lamb fur was not 'the most persistent material in these conditions'. Nevertheless, you pick up the key with confidence. You can't change the fact that you're wearing them right now. And the gloves don’t really matter when you’ll be warm in a minute.

The lodge is supposed to have a nice fireplace, a humongous oven, even a sofa. The prospect makes you feel cozy already, placing the key at the lock to push in with a hopeful mind. Once, twice. It doesn’t work. You flip the key by 180 degrees and try again. Thrice this time. It doesn’t even go half in, nor does it turn one bit. Banging at the won’t help to free the lock. It’s iced up from the inside out.

Fuck.

Instead of encountering a rear entrance around the corner, you only find a large stack of chopped wood. Jin likely prepared it two weeks ago, knowing you would stay here for two days before continuing your trip to Alaska. It’s an orderly stack, no wood out of place. It’s almost like... stairs. Stairs! It might have been unintentional, but the window right above the stack appears to be slightly tilted. Jin, you genius.

You climb up fast to reach the spot, some pieces of wood tumbling aside. The tilt of the window allows you to reach inside with one glove off, turning the handle. Click. The window opens with a creak while more wood falls down underneath you, so you are forced to slip in as quickly as possible. The landing is soft: Carpet.

You close the window with the help of a nearby broomstick and hurry to get the fireplace and oven going. It’s tedious work, but some pieces of wood are already in there — again, freshly chopped.

The tilted window left the lodge freezing cold even with a bit of snow inside. At least, the sofa is as comfortable as Jin had promised, inviting you with quite a couple of pillows and blankets. The heat distributes from the floor upwards while the sun sets. Your hands feel much better now that the damned wet gloves are off, dangling near the fireplace to dry.

There are some candles to light up at what is supposed to be the dinner table, a large oak trunk sliced in half and led out horizontally around four smaller trunks that serve as seats. The lighting is decent, but not sufficient given how late it is. You leave your coat and heavy shoes on while sitting on the sofa, watching flames tongue at the wood blocks.

Maybe the fire will get a little brighter when you wait. You didn't travel all the way from Juneau not to have a luminous evening now. Your relatives have made fun of you doing such a trip already, you'll prove them wrong and say when you arrive: Canada's great, no matter how icy it is.

It's not a good idea to doze off like that but you need rest, but also warmth. So you make sure to slightly tilt the window at the other side of the lodge to let in fresh air. If there's something you don't plan on doing during this vacation, it's dying because of carbon monoxide poisoning. You pass out fast between blankets and pillows, hoping that the lock would be easier to handle tomorrow.

A large rumble interrupts your sleep just when the fire starts to diminish. The entire valley echoes a thunderous boom, akin to an earthquake. It's terrifying. The sound gets you up at the blink of an eye.

You need to get out of here. If the roof collapses, you don't stand a chance.

The lock defrosted, but the door is still hard to open because of the snow pile outside. You push until the slit is broad enough to exit, almost tripping since the snow has been getting firmer with the falling evening degrees. Now you see where the rumble was coming from.

A giant blue truck has stopped just a few feet away.

There’s a cursing, lanky guy in a huge fur coat walking around it with a lantern. And in the distance, you see the respective truck trailer in the vicinity of the valley slope. But something's not right. In the scarce gleam of the lantern, you realize why.

It’s turned upside down.

The man adjusts his cap in surprise when you approach and yell through the wind.

“You lost your trailer?!”

“Where the hell did you come from?”

He's got a deep voice that's almost too hard to hear. The lantern shifts to your direction completely now. You step closer.

“The lodge, shall I contact—”

You can see his face now. Stern eyes. Strong jaw and brows. Tan, with bits of dark hair sticky against his forehead.

It's a grimace of sheer fury.

“I have one less problem when you’re not here. Go, just go away!”

He gestures, pointing at you, then to the house. “I’ll do this myself. You’ve seen nothing here. Go!”

Now he spins around on his heel. You can't even reply, he's so fast.

Back at the truck, he rummages in the driver’s cab, back turned to you.

“Headquarters! Headquarters, where are you? 5-0-6, 5-0-6 calling!”

He keeps repeating it, but there’s nobody answering on the radio set. The guy seeks to go on walking around the scene inspecting the trailer, and more insults follow. Only a few sentences and you know practically everyone he ever hated.

Only a rumble from the mountains comes as a response.

Much more severe than what you heard earlier when the crash happened. Against the cutting wind, you scream that you don’t care about his company messing up the trailer safety check, or the headquarters, or that everyone in the world is an asshole, and that he should come in. But he keeps roaming about. You go after him, drag him by the arm.

"Don't you understand? You shouldn't be here!"

He rips his arm away. His coat is hard to grasp.

“Come on...!”

He’s heavy and churning.

“Let me be, you can’t hel—”

He pushes you away. The rumble from the mountain turns louder, making him flinch and look upwards. You slap him across the face. Hard. It doesn't hurt, you can't feel your fingers in the cold anyway. But he can.

“Follow me fuckwit, now!”

He stumbles, ends up covered in snow. You fail to drag him up again in a last effort. He's too tall and massive.

The avalanche has almost reached the bottom of the valley when you shove, no, kick him past the doorstep and turn the key. Whatever caused him to get back up, it must have been a miracle.

Minute after minute passes with him and you jammed together at the ground, enduring the shaking, the roar outside. The lodge is still for seconds, but when you get up, another quake brings you down. He’s wincing next to you, coiled up inside the coat. When the roar subsides, none of you dares to rise for minutes on end. Once you dare to, he still remains cowering.

“Come on up, that was that,” you point to the sofa for him to sit. He bucks on the ground, then heaves himself up with the help of both arms. When he sits down on the couch, it feels like he collapses under the seeming weight of a metric ton.

“You were right. I’m a dumbass.”

He shifts in the pillows, rubbing his temples. “That was the worst case scenario.”

“Twice for me,” you grumble, “It’s my second day in Canada and I have more common sense than a trucker? What’s your name, anyways?”

“Namjoon. I’m actually a rookie driver.”

“You meant accident driver! You almost got both of us dead and frozen! Aren’t you supposed to have enough training beforehand to do this?”

“The shock. I, I messed up everything. I’m sorry. My job is history.”

“That’s the only thing you’re worried about?”

“Yes, I mean, no! I’m glad you did that.”

“Won’t do it again. Now you stay here and don’t move an inch.”

“Listen, I’m really grateful, I—”

“Just wait here. You look like a fucking wax figure. Unlucky devil. I'm Y/N.”

He nods, tries to wipe his face more than once with the back of his hand. You browse the back of the room to search for what you wanted to look for earlier, but were too tired.

Well. Now you aren't anymore.

The kitchen has quite a few supplies, in fact. Pots, tinned food, even bread. Some pieces of pastry with either almonds or raisins. Bless Jin.

“We can’t do anything now,” you shrug, “might as well have a can of soup.”

Namjoon only mumbles. He doesn't look any less jazzed. If the lodge had a bathtub, you would have him submerged there with whiskey in the water to get some life into him. Who knows how he managed to make his trailer break loose like that.

The pot heats quickly on the oven, it’s only a matter of two minutes. Soon, a scent of chicken, peas, and spicy pepper spreads in the room. After tossing two more blocks of wood into the fireplace, you find cutlery and crockery in a slightly lopsided cupboard and take two each. Once the two serves are ready, you pass him one, and he snaps out of his paralysis. Sort of. You feel a bit more lenient.

“Here. Sorry I blamed you. Neither was your fault.”

“It’s not that I didn’t provoke fate, don’t say that.”

He stirs the soup, hasty, then begins to spoon it.

“Don’t burn yourself just now.”

“I’ll be careful,” Namjoon slurps, “just feeling very done for, don’t really care.”

Once he’s finished, he waits for your last sip shifting around more, then rushes to clean up the kitchen. He persists putting everything back to its original place and make up for your efforts. You can't stop him. Needing to keep himself occupied, it seems to you. He returns to the couch even more exhausted, not knowing how to compose himself. No eye contact.

“Your clothes,” you seize him up a second time, “get these off, you’re soaked from head to toe. I’ll get you bundled up. The fire’s warm enough now.”

“Right. Right. Good idea, actually.”

His nose and cheeks are twice as rosy than before now, but drenched in cold sweat. The cap comes off, so does the coat. The heavy boots — unlaced.

He’s wearing one thick knit of a sweater and bulky jeans with pockets all over. All wetted by snow, too. You turn away to get a blanket while he strips down to his boxers entirely. Before he’s wrapped up, you find yourself gazing at his body more than once. You won't say anything but he caught the glance.

"What?"

"Do you really wanna know?"

"By, uh, all means?"

“Good-looking for a fuckup.”

"Me?"

"No, I'm talking about Santa Claus. Of course!"

“Oh, thanks I—”

“Nevermind the blanket if you dare.” You nudge his shoulder. His cheeks get even rosier. "Hey. Just kidding," you giggle, and have him wrapped up as promised.

Still, the feeling between your legs won’t betray you.

“Do you... like me?” he fiddles at his thighs ever so awkwardly. It’s hard to believe he was cussing like a sailor outside just minutes ago.

“Can't leave you guessing, babe. As I said." You tug at his hips now. "That blanket can go back to where it came from. Or above us, it's always warmer together. Fancy it?”

He hesitates to answer. But when you smile at him, his dimples form, too.

“I do, Y/N. Above, I mean.”

You get on the couch yourself and lead him downwards, horizontal, by his arm just ever so lightly. The pillows then welcome you, too, huddled tightly by his side. You can feel his heartbeat in staccato. He nods when you ask him whether he’d enjoy a bit more than just cuddles.  

“Rather be doing that than messing around outside. We have plenty of time to kill. Your trailer isn't going anywhere.”

“Plenty, what do you wanna do?”

He tempts with one gaze that you think was supposed to be challenging, predatory. But when you pinch his side, it fades faster than it came.

“Plenty of time to make you and me feel like we’re halfway warm again. I’m snowed in on vacation. You shredded your entire cargo. We almost died. Sounds stressful enough for me.”

“Gotta let loose I guess.”

“Why not make a fuckup a real fuck, then?”

"Y/N..."

"Want me to give it to you good?"

Now you poke his dimples, and think they look fascinating.

“Have virtually nothing against it. Just a bit, um...”

"Yes, Joon?"

"Nervous. Sorry about that."

"No problem, don't mind it. Kinda like that, actually."

You trail your hand down his chest, but hardly is it in a hurry. Each inch is worth it. Namjoon is so well-built. He’s just ridiculous, isn’t he.

Outside, the mountains start to grumble again. He flinches.

“Hush, don’t listen.” You bite at his ear, which is surprisingly small for his height. “We’re gonna make this better. Not worse.”

“I’m still afraid,” Namjoon says and buries his head in the nape of your neck. He feels less tense when you plant a little kiss at the crown of his head.

You get a certain thought at that.

“It's okay. We’re gonna play a hot game if you like."

"Hot game?"

"It's a bit risky."

"What's that about? I'm not going outside again."

You shake your head.

"No need. Wanna know the rules?"

"If it's that hot. I mean, sure?"

"I’ll count to hundred. If you can make me cum twice, you get a reward.”

“O-okay.”

"Only hands or mouth allowed. Just my clit and you. Nothing else."

"But why... twice? Only hundred, Christ!"

“If it’s only once, I’ll tease you to bits. But you can’t finish. Twice is a better accomplishment.”

“Fair enough.”

“And,” you nibble at his ear, “If you can’t make me cum at all, you get punished and have to try again. Join the game or leave the game, Fuckup?”

Namjoon goes entirely red when you lower the hem of your pants.

A risky game.

Why not? A little heat like that is fine for a trucker. It’s a little cruel, too. Oddly enough, he likes that quite a lot.

Body faster than any thought, his tongue sneaks out to cover his lips in saliva, but he quickly realizes they won’t stay dry anyways. Not with the prospect of 100 seconds. His head nods a sultry yes.

Namjoon’s lip begins to waver, ever so slowly, but accelerate at the way you intonate the numbers.

“Fifteen, sucker!”

His ears are warm indeed now. You love his lips, they’re like little pillows. And shiny as you briefly see when he emerges as 20. He catches a breath. Too long, because you approach 25. He's trying hard to provide the stimulation.

“Halfway through for the first one! 28!”

Now his hands sneak up. Finally. He gave up his delusion, or say, found what you wanted. Those long, sturdy fingers. The veins, like serpentines around his knuckles. Finger cups, soft but still potent to deliver a strong pressing against your clit. Perhaps too strong. Too inexperienced. He misses the spot a few times. He’s sweating more. The number is 45. In desperation, he switches to tongue again.

Satisfy.

Why can’t I satisfy her. Stupid trucker, do it right. Do at least one thing right today. Are you a man or not?

A painful tug at his hair gets him back to reality when 60 approaches. He’s grateful for the hint, but his tongue won’t function anymore. His lips are coated wet, plump, thumping, and your scent becomes intoxicating to his mind. 71, and he still pokes around aimlessly. 72. 73. He brings up one hand to aid his tongue, parts your folds ready to thrust and lock two fingers inside. But then, Namjoon remembers: No penetration allowed. 78, 79.

Approaching 82, he rubs his palm flat against your pubic bone downwards. It does the trick, the familiar tingle wanders down your abdomen. You’re so wet. But that makes his hand slide off, and he needs more pressure to bring it in place, which makes it even more slippery.

“91, baby boy.”

And you don't count very fast. He’s groaning. The strength in his arm starts to fade. You can tell by how he slows down at 94, but still won’t give up using his tongue. He shoves and shoves, shoves it forward and sidewards, and still: the right spot escapes his prodding. The tension of your thighs around his head is none the stronger. How he wishes it was.

He wants to feel you climax and moan and wind, and scream, by now he’s frantically sucking and grinding his face between your legs, one orgasm! One orgasm, that’s it! He’ll do it! And finally, satisfy—

“Hundred. Game over!”

Nothing.

Satisfy absolutely nothing. Your legs part slightly to release him.

He pulls off eyes downcast. How ludicrous that must have looked like, he can’t even bring forth an apology. Even if his lips have moved more in the last minutes than the last two months on the training road combined.

“Just punish me, Y/N.”

Do I even deserve that? I'm a real fuckwit loser.

“I have sympathies now seeing you worked so much.”

“No punishment?”

“Oh, my baby fool.” You tickle his chin and pick up a bit of the warm drops from there. “More sympathies means stronger punishment, didn’t you know?”

“Then, do it as hard as you can. I’ll take it.”

“No, I won’t.”

“Y/N, I don’t understand.”

“You’ve done the due already without me doing anything. Humiliated yourself enough, didn’t you? Look me in the eye!”

“Sorry...”

“When someone asks for punishment, it truly isn’t one. Punishment has to hurt more than that. It won’t make you feel good. You just took my job.”

That alone almost got you off. But you’ll teach him a lesson today. That means: Self-control.

Namjoon scrambles in the pillows and manages to pull up his glance.

“Kind of. Yes. Maybe I did.”

“Come here, I’ll show you how to do it right.”

Namjoon doesn’t look any less shameful at that. But he comes close to where you beckon him into his embrace. He leans his head against your chest visibly hesitating, but follows at the guidance of your palm at the back of his neck. Namjoon’s heartbeat is still going wild, you can feel it now.

“Won’t humiliate you further after this,” you smooch his sweaty cheek. “You’ll find out how I really come with just a lil’ pointer.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve been forcing yourself into being tough and sloppy for 100 seconds straight, didn’t you?”

Namjoon becomes taciturn at that. Still, he nods.

“What I want to see,” and you tap his chest saying that, “is how you are... naturally. Who said you can’t use your hands and mouth elsewhere? My body’s not just one pleasure point and that’s it. You think I'll ever be contented like that in a million years and beyond? I'm a woman. I want more. I want it all, baby, don't you know!”

“O-Oh. I should have—”

“Wanna give it a go again? I think you know what to do. No shoulds and woulds now. Remember the rules.”

“Yes, Y/N.”

So good. The fingers of his left hand are intertwined with your hair, brushing softly just above the scalp when he decides to move them around a bit to explore. It brings back a distant memory.

Going to the barber’s shop in the small town you grew up in. Nothing about their service was cheap, so your parents couldn’t let you go often. Every visit was like entering heaven anew each time you stepped in on a Thursday afternoon. The chubby coiffeur was always friendly, and you loved the sound of his green scissors, the razors, the jasmine shampoo kneaded into your locks. The salon would always be filled with happy people looking at their transformations from all angles, a scent of bleach or hairspray, and Tango music blasting from the stereo in the other room where an apprentice would mix colors and move his hips to the beat thinking nobody would hear and see. There were no worries at that time. The world was okay. You'd even spend a bit of your pocket money for a massage. His hands bring you back to the days, with all the goosebumps and tingles in the same spots. He knows how to move them just right. Namjoon.

Who keeps on whispering in your ear, and trailing his other hand across your belly. All the sensitive places covered and cherished. Slowly pulling off the rest of your clothing. 22. 23.

“I love your body,” he says. “It’s smart like you. And beautiful.”

Namjoon’s lips trace your jawline, upwards, downwards, then return to your ear.

“Can I kiss you, madam?”

“Go ahead, darlin’.”

You barely reach 40 and his lips are indulging your tongue. One hand caressing your back, the other roaming your breasts. It feels like your spine is infused with a fresh, bubbling feeling that lingers the more his lips do their work. They feed back the nectar that they picked up between your thighs so expertly. It's astonishing. You wonder how he didn’t do this earlier. And he seems to catch up on the same thought, too.

He must have figured you like his veins because you get a good view of them. Going in circles on your breasts. While his mouth makes slow, repeated contact with your clit, seemingly ignorant that you’re approaching 65. At 70, his tongue fucks past the damp folds leading upwards to the tender place where his tip stops and plants almost little electrical impulses.

Your clit is so swollen, wherever he brings his tongue up it will contact and give a feeling that you convulse with so much excitement. While his hands continue their magical work at your waist, your hips, your ass. Even your calves and feet. 78, 79. Freaking Namjoon’s hands. Hands, hands, hands, fucking hands. Your skin has never felt more exalted.

“You’re perfect, Miss,” he mumbles into you, intertwines his fingers with yours. "Thank you for picking me up outside."

81, 82. Shit. Your body is on fire.

Namjoon keeps on bringing his tongue forward and alternates with kisses. And then, he directs his thumb between your legs. Gently massaging. Small, dainty pokes. It’s like pushing a button to tip you off the glaring edge. He whispers.

“And I like you, too.”

99.

You’re cumming. So good. So hard. So fucking hard. You’re sorry for his ears, but your legs cramp together so fervently around his head, his exhale is louder than yours. All signs are on fuck it. Your hips jerk and all cum dribbles out. Ruining his face, his hair. The sharp brows, the gorgeous dimpled smile. If another avalanche would come to be your frosty grave now, it wouldn't matter.

You’ve stopped counting by the time you slip on his dick with a condom barely on. Did he get that from the gas station? You’ll never know. Judging by the way he twitches, you know how long this trailer hasn’t seen a parking lot for all that heavy, bulging freight. He’s so nervous. He's so sexy. With that deep voice. That perfect dark hair. It’s getting ecstatic.

If you wanna bounce on him, you’ll do it properly, gradual and sloppy, even if your mind says go and screw his soul out... wherever that trucker soul is, his balls? They need to be crushed, they need to be ruined, you want it all.

The condom eventually bows to your pace and stays where it should, much like Namjoon who looks like he froze completely being so tense. Only your name comes from his lips, over and over. They are trembling, but not because he's cold. Not with that temperature in the room. The friction is just too much, no matter how much he concentrates to keep his hands on you where they tingle. No, he fumbles at your thighs, then returns back to stimulating your sensitive place, and the faint thought returns to you.

The second orgasm.

It already approaches. If it could melt the snow outside with all its heat, it would. Those fingers really do the rest.

He was right that your body is smart.

Being smart means knowing what’s good for you. And, what is that?

Gushing all over his cock and groaning like it’s the last time. Game won. Well, kind of. If you can come on his dick like that and engulf him whole, own him whole, squeeze him whole, the rules are best discarded. The release is so heavenly. You feel so real and satisfied. He did so well. Very well for a fuckup, in fact. All to be smudged and blighted by the spill of your jizz, and it's so pretty on his shaft. You wouldn’t have thought that this emotion would be so powerful after all.

It’s his words that keep on repeating themselves, and they drive you wild. He likes you, too. The scent of pepper and smoke in the room becomes so much more clear in your sensation, ultimately, before blurring into the familiar picture. A winter’s white desert before your eyes. If only it would last forever. Who would have known how capable he is, that charmer, to make you come.

The condom is chucked in a random corner.

You feel funny just lying there sticky talking about how you must have looked like kicking and yelling at each other earlier. But well, there is nobody else to laugh at you here. Maybe just the moon and the stars outside. Cackling how two idiots could get stuck in a lodge like this. At least, they are silent. Maybe that is eerie, but then again, Namjoon is next to you. His presence is comforting. He doesn’t snore and burp like you thought he would, or pull out a giant cigar to huff himself to sleep humming country songs. But it would have suited the atmosphere inside.

You are hungry again, but too lazy to get up. So late, so exhausted, and you're stuck here for longer anyways. No urgency. Time to sleep says the rest of your body save the stomach, and the stars go on giggling by themselves. They know it. Humans are all complete morons.

Namjoon wakes up with the messiest, sexiest hair you’ve ever seen. And, is that a beard coming out? You must be mistaken.

He says he must have tossed and turned, oh lord is he grumpy, but you don’t recall him being such a restless sleeper when you briefly got up at dawn. The toilet in the lodge was indeed prepared like you suspected, because Seokjin won’t fear getting his hands dirty. At this point, you feel like paying him for all the work he’s done. And the foresight. You're almost sure he gave Namjoon condoms for free. It's not hard to imagine how he realized what a hot piece of fuck was arriving at the gas station in his damn coat. And that sailor mouth, which you now think deserves better than calling it just that.

You get your breakfast together, set up the table, Namjoon does most of the work even if his mood isn’t the best and his clothes aren't completely dry. Who knows how long the food will last while you are stuck here, so he creates smaller rations. A bit of bread today. A bit later. It’s like a small lump on your plates.

You talk about how many miles he needed to drive to get to Alberta where a promotion waits. Well, would wait. And how you'll likely be way too behind on schedule now to continue the vacation. You can scrap it all if you can't reach the next station. The bread is only a small consolation, but you know that past counting to hundred and having fun to get a bit warmer you are in serious trouble. Two unlucky devils in one spot, and you can drink to that. Dreams are but shadows.

But before you can dig in, a brazen knock interrupts the conversation.

The door.

Which you thought would have been blocked entirely by night. But it's not. It's half open. A voice reverberates outside, again, accompanied by several other knocks.

“506? You in there? It’s 507! Got your signal last night! Manager Hyuna sent us!”

“It's you! Hobi!”

Namjoon hurries to the door. Opening it, a bunch of rugged-looking truckers welcome you with their shovels. Namjoon can’t help himself, he starts jumping around. The trucker with the cap standing at the door greets you with a nonchalant handshake. He's devastatingly sexy.

“Hi! Jung Hoseok, went to the academy with Joon. And these handsome chaps here: Yoongi, Tae, JK. We'll get you two wherever ya need to be. We got someone to clear the area, too.”

Well.

Canada's great.

No matter how icy it is.

Do not repost, reuse, modify, or translate my works. © 2017-2019 submissive-bangtan. All rights reserved.

[surfergurl30]

I’m a Michigan Native born and raised that has been living down in Miami. The differences between the people, the lifestyle, the food, and everything is definitely a shock to anyone who is accustomed to having four seasons and easy northern living. Here are some of the things I want to contrast from the 305 to the 248.

#1 In Michigan we have LOTS of Coney Islands. These are small, family owned businesses typically that serve breakfast all day, sometimes Greek fare like Saganaki, and are known mostly for selling Coney Dogs (a hot dog smothered with chili and sprinkled with onion). Back home this is one of my favorite places to casually meet up with friends or just to grab a bite to eat that’s not fast food.

In Miami there is no such thing as Coney Islands, instead there are Cafeterias… small, family owned restaurants that sometimes serve breakfast all day (usually for an extra cost past 11 am). Cafeterias are well known for cranking out colada (aka. rocket fuel, it’s a mix of lots of sugar and several shots of espresso that is poured into tiny cups and sipped or taken like a shot… EXTREMELY POTENT!) and making traditional Cuban style entrees and sandwiches and little on the go foods like empenadas, croquetas, and pastelitos. I have grown to love Cuban food and we frequently go to eat it. My favorite dishes are chicken vaca frita, Cuban style chicken soup, guava pastelitos, yuca frita and tostones. However, I really do miss going to Coney Island and ordering breakfast food whenever I want and not being judged for it.

#2 Michigan has a bottle bill so there is a 10 cent refund on carbonated beverage containers like pop (NOT SODA!), beer, and sparkling waters. Families keep their cans and bottles and take them with them to the grocery store where there are machines that scan and collect the bottles. When you are done, the machine prints out a receipt with a barcode that can be used like cash on your groceries! We also have many other incentives to recycle like coupons for putting our bins out on trash day (they scan a barcode on our recycle bin and then we receive coupons to LOCAL businesses as a thank you for taking part in the recycling program). In Michigan, we are able to recycle a much wider variety of different types of materials, are educated in school on the importance of recycling, and are raised with the “can I recycle this before I throw it in a trash can?” mentality.

Florida has no bottle bill. There is also no incentive to recycle and it doesn’t seem like many people recycle the way we do, perhaps that’s because you can’t recycle many of the materials we are able to in Michigan. Plastic bags is a HUGE one… it is one of the most common things found floating in the ocean here but you cannot put them in your normal recycle bin here! SO. FREAKING. DUMB! Also, they thought it would be an awesome idea to put a landfill right next to Biscayne Bay National Park… what a joke. I guess they really don’t care much about the beautiful ocean down here and the ecosystems of incredible animals here because neither the legislators nor the people do much to make an impact on how wasteful and detrimental their lifestyle is to the environment. SUPER SAD AND FRUSTRATING!

#3 Michigan people are typically down to earth and welcoming. Most of us have family roots that are blue collar and extend back to the days when working in the industries that once boomed downtown in Powerhouse Detroit or farming in our orchards or fields was a way of life. We are a big community and we are really proud of our state, our sports (even the Lions haha), our gorgeous seasons, and our heritage. We are Pure Michigan.

Feet warming by fireplace

Florida is a strange state… Miami is even stranger. Miami is mostly composed of Spanish speakers and the majority have come here from Cuba or South America. This state is fueled a lot on tourism because it has no seasons so people visit for our sunshine, beaches, waves, Walt Disney World, etc. The people who actually live here and grew up here down’t have the laid back attitude you find up in Michigan. Everything is a competition down here. Everyone has a mentality of entitlement and “I have to be better than everyone else”. In connection with this mentality is selfishness. Anytime you talk to someone here it is hard to have a genuine conversation with someone without that person analyzing you in regards to “how can this person benefit me?”. Every friend I have ever made is 103% genuine and kindhearted and humble. We are still friends despite the distance and I wish I had people down here as wonderful as them, ESPECIALLY my girlfriends. Some days, when Bryan leaves to work or hangs out with his friends or goes out fishing,  I am so lonely here and desperate to hang out with another person who understands me and enjoys the things I do that I break down and cry because I feel as if that is impossible… I don’t think there is anyone else here but Bryan that would bother to take the time to want to spend time with me hanging out and getting to know me and who I am. I’ve never been anywhere or lived anywhere where it is SO HARD to make friends as it is here. I am often overcome with anxiety or depression from feeling trapped and alone.

#4 Like I said before Michigan celebrates its four seasons and is EXTREMELY festive for all holidays. We go all out for Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter, Saint Patrick’s Day, Fourth of July, EVERYTHING!

Florida has no definitive seasons and I truly miss how wonderful everything looks when the holidays roll around. I also miss being able to wear skinny jeans comfortably with leather riding boots and a sweater on a crisp autumn day or wearing flannel pajama pants and getting cozy by a wood fire in the fireplace watching the snow fall outside (I don’t think there is a single house in Miami with an actual fireplace haha). I seriously miss the foliage and the trails… being able to go running, hiking, or biking and enjoying the scenery without being eaten to death by bugs. There’s so many mosquitoes down here I swear I must have given blood a few times over.

#5 Michigan people know how to drive, we have the motor city after all. Our driving school program is really good and I learned how to drive in the snow so I am a pretty good defensive driver. I also have no tickets and have never been in an accident.

Every day I have to drive in Florida I fear that someone is going to hit me. No one here uses their turn signal EVER! (they may as well just not put them on the cars here) Also, there is no in between aggressive drivers and really slow drivers. Most of the cars in Miami are pretty nice cars too! It’s not uncommon to see many people driving luxury brand cars like Tesla, Maserati, Genesis, Ferrari, etc. Regardless, of what people drive here they still don’t know what they’re doing.

#6 Back in Michigan, and even when I lived in Missouri, we get very hyped up for hockey season. I’m all about the Detroit Red Wings, the Grand Rapids Griffins, and I still have lots of respect and follow the Saint Louis Blues. There’s nothing like getting heated watching a hockey game with your friends and drinking some brews.

Florida… it’s always warm here so many people here have never seen snow, why would they want to play ice hockey? I don’t even think we have an ice hockey arena near our house.

#7 There’s plenty of really cool microbreweries and hole in the wall places to eat and drink and hang out with friends all over Michigan. There’s always something fun or cool to do because there’s community events all the time.

Miami is a big city and not much of a community. I haven’t really felt compelled to see/ experience what the night life is like here mostly based off of what I have seen on social media/heard. Plus, I don’t have any friends to hang out at the bar with. I have a few cool places that I have discovered and enjoy but they aren’t quite like my favorite places in Michigan. I haven’t run a 5K in ages, I can’t remember the last time I saw a movie in the theater, I haven’t gone to a mall to go shopping, I have yet to see a live concert down here… there just isn’t much I do aside from going out fishing, baking homemade goods through our new business- Reel Desserts of Miami, or coaching my kids swimming. I’d like to go to a farmers market sometime, visit a winery, do a half marathon or 5K, and go back down to the Keys to chill.

I’m not entirely sure what it is like to be homesick, but if I had to guess this is it. Someone once told me, “You’ll never find anywhere else in the world quite like the place where you grew up”. They were right. I’ve traveled a bit and I think Michigan might always be home to me even if I don’t picture myself living there or raising a family there. I miss my people more than anything and so I think that it is definitely true that it’s the people that make a place. Realistically, I think I would be much happier here if I had my friends here to hang out with, but I don’t have anyone here. Miami isn’t a bad place, it’s just not MY place. I still belong on a beach somewhere where I can surf and teach lessons or have a bakery coffee shop, or teach yoga. In Miami, I’m not often excited about my life… I feel bored, uninspired and stuck. I’m still searching for what will get me out of that… I want to feel motivated, happy, and like myself again. Lately I have been super emotionally distraught. Typically, I seriously have a massive love/hate relationship with the holidays. Usually because of the anxiety of talking to relative that as stupid stuff I don’t want to discuss like “what are you doing with your life? When are you getting married? Blah, blah, blah, more questions about stupid stuff I️ don’t want to talk about”… but this year I’m honestly so homesick that for the first time in my life I’m super stoked  because Christmas means being reunited and seeing my family and friends again. I couldn’t be ready to head home for the holidays! I miss my mitten and the wonderful people that fill it ❤ See you guys soon!

-NR

  Michigan V. Miami I'm a Michigan Native born and raised that has been living down in Miami. The differences between the people, the lifestyle, the food, and everything is definitely a shock to anyone who is accustomed to having four seasons and easy northern living.

[propertyhold]

The Den: The Big Reveal!

Exactly four years ago today, I became a homeowner. That decision could be characterized in a lot of ways: crazy, stupid, optimistic, deluded, exciting, terrifying, and maybe a bit ambitious. I loved this house from the second I saw it, and if I was going to buy a house (something I was not particularly equipped or intending to do), it was going to be this house. There were no other contenders.

That part—the period of falling for a property and feeling committed to its acquisition—felt easy (the actual purchase part was not, but that’s another story). The stuff that came after it wasn’t quite as easy. I’m not sure I have much in the way of original thoughts on this topic: yes, it really does take twice as long. Yes, it really does cost twice as much. Yes, at times it’s satisfying, frustrating, overwhelming, thrilling, and challenging. It’s a process that can variably bring out both the best and the worst, exposing your weaknesses and fears as much as it reveals the heights of your capacity for joy and contentment. It’s a long, strange, intensely humbling trip.

None of this is immediately pertinent to this post, I guess, but it felt weird to not acknowledge the milestone of four years! Some days it feels like the house has come such a long way, and other days it feels like the amount of remaining work is insurmountable. So with regards to the den, this is a space that—until very recently—contributed to that whole insurmountable feeling. This room has never really been anything. For a while it had a bed in it for guests (who got to wake up looking at a half-demoed water-damaged acoustic tile ceiling…how charming!), but mainly it’s just been a place for stuff to spill into as other spaces got worked on. Which feels…weird! There’s this whole space in my house that, functionally, might as well have been some off-site storage facility (which certainly would have felt cleaner and more manageable!), and now it’s an actual room that I’m actually sitting in and actually writing this blog post and actually not seeing anything crumbling around me or making me feel crappy because “oh-my-god-I’ve-lived-here-for-this-long-and-this-room-is-still-a-total-dump.” Particularly on a DIY pace and budget, stuff just takes a long time, and it’s not always easy (or, necessarily, especially productive) to pinpoint exactly why. It just does.

SO! Shall we take a looksie around the new room? Let’s do it.

Ba-boom! If it looks like a different room, that’s almost because it is. That bay window situation in the “before” shot was not original to the house and I removed it last summer as part of a larger exterior renovation, and I believe this is actually much as the room would have looked when it was built! Time saw the addition of electricity, hardwood flooring laid over the original subfloor, and hot water radiator heating, but ya know—that stuff’s not going anywhere. The rest of it is just cosmetic—one of the ways I try to approach renovating vs. decorating is by renovating with more of a restoration mindset, and decorating however the hell I want. Somebody could move in here and swap out light fixtures and repaint (or wallpaper), furnish, and have themselves much more of a time capsule vibe, but I guess I’d rather just have a…me vibe? This room feels very me, to me. ME ME ME.

Here’s where we were at the beginning of March!

And today! Much improved, yes?

Sorry, I’m a sucker for a before-and-after comparison. Did we get it out of our systems? I really wish I had taken more pictures of the room before it started getting torn apart! It’s like I had learned nothing four years ago when I had the opportunity to take true “before” photos. I’m going to blame it on the fact that I saw much more of the house as a straightforward renovation/redecorating project than what it’s become.

So, maybe this room looks crazy and maybe it is crazy and maybe I have no ability to form an objective opinion on it, but I DO know that it’s filled with so many things I love and is so comfortable and cozy that I literally do not care at all if it could also be considered stylish. I think it’s pretty. I don’t know.

I’ve mentioned lots of these things before, so forgive me if I’m repeating myself, but…

This sofa!! I bought it from Susan and Will Brinson (of the obscenely inspiring blog, House of Brinson). 400 bucks! For a secondhand, high-quality, all leather sofa that is the most comfortable thing in the world, I think that’s a great deal. Even though this room isn’t really a guest room (it was supposed to be when I started working on it!), the cushion section of the sofa is roughly the size of a twin sized bed, and I can tell you from firsthand experience (of Netflix and chilling so hard that I fall asleep) that it’s SO comfortable. I wouldn’t feel bad asking a guest to sleep here because it really does sleep like a bed, not a couch. I love the wear on the leather, and I love that I don’t have to be insane about it because it’s already been lovingly broken in by two large dogs before my own dogs, so they just add to the patina.

Womb chair, womb chair! I love this chair but Mekko REALLY loves this chair. When I was a kid, my mom looked for a lounge chair for her bedroom for literally a decade, and as a teenager I recommended this one…which she purchased…and then hated…which I was secretly kind of excited about because it meant that if she didn’t get around to reselling it as she said she would, I could ask for it when I eventually had the space to accommodate. MY SCHEME WORKED and now it is mine and it’s the most expensive dog bed in the world.

The original (well, original to the house being heated by radiators—before that it was wood stoves!) radiator got a few coats of glossy black spray paint, and I love the pairing of the black-black with the blue-black walls! I don’t know why! Particularly with more ornate radiators like this one, I think black paint is a great way to really highlight the fancy Victorian scrollwork on each fin.

Above the radiator is a collection of frameless antique mirrors, which I hoard just because. When the foil backing starts to disintegrate on an old mirror, I think the effect is so beautiful and interesting and I just buy them whenever I see them, assuming the price is good and they meet my rigorous quality standards of being in one piece.

I always thought it would be cool to display them in some kind of grouping, and this steel ledge isn’t quite what I had in mind, but I bought the ledge almost four years ago (it was supposed to go in my first kitchen renovation, but I changed my mind!), so it was nice to finally put it to use since I didn’t get my act together and send it back to CB2 at the time.

The tea light candlesticks are originally from Dwell Studio, but I picked them up a few years ago secondhand. I love them so much! The wooden tray that they’re sitting on I bought in the fall when I was in Austria. So simple and pretty.

On the wall to the right of the window, the top little piece of art was made by my mommy as a kid! I stole it out of a box of old stuff in our basement years ago, and I’ve had it hanging somewhere since. I love it—someday I’ll upgrade the frame, but an IKEA RIBBA never hurt anyone. The muscleman below it came out of my grandparents’ house after they had both passed away, and nobody knows where it came from or who the artist is.

The light is from my internet pal and long-time design crush, Logan at One Forty Three. I’m so proud of that dude! Watching his business expand and grow, and all the things he’s created since I first became aware of his work, has been so exciting. I’ve had the lamp for…probably 5 years at this point, and it still looks and works like the day it was packaged up and sent to my then-home in Brooklyn. I’m so happy to have it hanging up again.

The dark walls do swallow up a lot of natural daylight (perfect for a chill zone room like this, I think!), but that can make houseplants difficult. I’ve never had a problem keeping one of these ZZ plants alive though—perfect for low light and thrive on neglect. The pot is vintage, found somewhere around Kingston. The candlestick is also vintage and used to be half of a set of two, but I MAY have not realized that absent a metal liner in the part where the candle goes, a candle will burn down and then light the candlestick on fire, and then that will burn until somebody notices.

I’m a hazard.

I bought the dog on a trip to China in 2005. I bought the side table a few years ago from JC Penney, when Terence Conran did a really nice collection for them, and then it all went on clearance, and then I panic-bought some of my favorite pieces from the collection just BECAUSE I HAD TO and I don’t regret it because I think it was like $30 for this cast iron and white oak side table that is just so cute and very well-made.

Also you can kind of get a sense of how the Diamante wallpaper from Hygge & West in the adjoining little office looks with this room. I feel like the two play well together!

You might recognize the two pieces above the sofa from my Brooklyn bedroom and then again from my current bedroom that I showed you just a few weeks ago, but naturally I’ve already moved them and I think THIS is where they belong! These hung in my grandparents’ bedroom at least throughout my lifetime, and it’s an honor to have them here.

Also, ORANGE NAKED LADY!!! Evidently, I wrote a blog post about her back in 2013 after I bought her at an auction, but she’s never really had a permanent home until now. I’m still exactly as tickled by her as I was when I spent $60 real-life dollars on her and got made fun of by other auction attendees for it.

SPEAKING of auctions…now is the part where if you didn’t hate me already, I give you license to hate me now.

I went to an auction shortly after I started working on this room.

I saw this rug.

I wanted this rug. Immediately. Intensely.

I prepared myself to spend $400-$500 for this rug, which is a chunk of change but actually a good deal for a rug of this age and size (and, I’d argue, uniqueness), and I’d been looking for one for this room, and here it was.

The bidding started.

Nobody bid.

I bid. $45. And won.

FORTY. FIVE. DOLLARS. That’s, like, a fancy tea towel. That’s, like, five burritos.

The guy next to me literally turned to me and asked what possessed me to buy that rug. ARE YOU BLIND, SIR?

OK I’m done gloating. I love that rug so hard. The colors are so weird and good. The wear is everything I want.

I haven’t painted the door yet (since it swings into the hallway, I can convince myself it’s part of the hallway restoration, which I’ve been great at putting off indefinitely), but you get the idea.

This space is pretty narrow, and that couch is ENORMOUS, and the space between the righthand corner and the door trim is about a foot, so I needed something very slim for under the TV.

I searched and searched and racked my brain for something I could just buy and be done with. I didn’t want to build a thing. It felt like…I just built a ROOM, do I really need to make myself crazy over building something big FOR the room?

Then I built a thing and I’m so glad I did because I actually really like the thing I built! It’s essentially just a plywood box that’s covered in lath from my very own walls and ceilings. I think I started it on a Sunday morning and had it hanging on the wall by Monday afternoon, and it holds a bunch and looks cute and cost me all of about $10 for the piano hinge. Also, it was really fun! Since buying the house, it’s actually very rare that I just kind of make something that isn’t part of a much larger renovation project, and I forget how fun it is to just play around with some tools and some wood and see what happens.

By the way, on top of the cabinet thing on the far left sits a Sonos speaker, and my Apple TV is turned sideways between the speaker and the stack of books. That’s all the technology! I’ve tried to make it a tradition to buy a Sonos speaker upon the completion of each room to spread the cost out—it’s kind of spendy for me, but I do really like the system and I love that the speakers come in white or black so it’s usually possible to keep it very inconspicuous.  The speakers all tie back to the Sonos app on my phone, and can be controlled independently or in unison to play music, adjust the volume, play/pause, etc. I recommend it!

I didn’t do anything particularly nice about finishing the inside (I made it! for me! and I don’t care!), but it holds a ton! I decided to put all of my weird pottery and figurines and candlesticks and stuff in there, along with extra tea lights and candles for the room. It’s so nice to have all this kind of stuff in one place! I find that I love too many things and can’t display them all at once without my house looking like a thrift store that somebody lives in, but if I rotate stuff in and out of display it keeps things looking more sane and ALSO makes me appreciate stuff more when I don’t see it all the time. Kind of like shopping in my own house when I get the itch to move stuff around, which is an extremely frequent event because I love to futz.

LEST you had not hit your limit with me over RugGate 2017 (scroll up a few photos; it literally just happened), a few weeks ago I was tromping through some funny antique mall kind of place in New Jersey and spotted this little fella for a dollar. So tiny! Those delicate little brass feet! Immediately I was charmed. I picked him up and then couldn’t put him back down, so I shelled out my George Washington to take him home.

Fast forward a couple of weeks into our new blissful life together, during which I had unofficially named him Herman, and I posted an Instagram of him, and was immediately informed from multiple sources that little Herman is…kind of valuable. Oddly enough, Herman was designed by Jacob Hermann (how weird is that!) in Denmark in the 1950s, and is highly collectable, and seems to sell for a few hundred dollars up to several thousand for a grouping.

Lesson: never pass up a good tchotchke. Just build a cabinet to store all the tchotchkes.

Finally, the light! THE PINK LIGHT! PINKKKKK LIGHTTTTTT!

Here’s what had happened. I went to Germany in the fall. Essentially I landed from my red-eye flight, dropped my bag at the hotel in Berlin, and immediately went to a flea market. I was so tired and so not thinking clearly and before I knew it, I had blown my entire souvenir budget on three vintage rugs and this 1950s chandelier. This is what it means to travel with me, and I am considering the first clause of this sentence as fair warning to anybody who might someday travel with me.

I carried the light through Germany and into Austria, where I disassembled it and shipped it home via DHL, which was FREAKISHLY fast. It arrived before I even got home! Between the purchase and the shipping I ended up spending about $250 on this thing, which is typically more than I’d spend on…most things, but I REALLY WANTED IT for no reason in particular. A month ago I worked up the nerve to unpack the box—knowing that one broken shade would pretty much render the entire thing worthless—but luckily it had arrived intact so then it was just a matter of rewiring the whole thing, remembering how everything fit together, and hanging it up.

I love you, pink light. Never leave me.

Annnnnnnnnd, here is my attempt to keep up with the bloggers and make this post “shoppable”: A THING IN THIS ROOM THAT I THINK YOU CAN ACTUALLY BUY! I love this little candleholder from the Modern by Dwell Magazine collection for Target. Mine was on a clearance rack at a store in Virginia that I visited to buy clean underwear after the Baltimore kitchen renovation, but it’s still for sale online. So cute!

Is that it? I think that might be it. Opium den—check!

The Den: The Big Reveal! syndicated from your-t1-blog-url

[sugar-petals]

Fuckup Trucker [M]

⟾ summary: Canada’s number one imperious truck driver Kim “The Accident” Namjoon crashes at your winter lodge. Literally. After rescuing him from the scene and stripping down at the fireplace, turns out he’s not tough as nails at all. ⟾ pairing: sub!Namjoon x Dom!Reader  ⟾ words: 5.1k ⟾ genre: Angst / Smut / Fluff — The holy trinity, Vacation AU ⟾ warnings: Riddled with innuendo, heavy swearing, slapping, someone’s getting roasted AND dominated, riding, femdom, hands kink, cunnilingus, vaginal sex, fingering, dimples (!), RM gets called baby a lot, graphic description, ASMR, Namjoon whispering, humiliation kink, multiple orgasms, angsty start, fights, natural disasters, Kim Namjoon is The Fuckup™ ⟾ a/n: This was drafted for several months. But now I’ll let out the beast 🔥I always fantasize about hot stories in the winter snow, this is one of them. Loving submissive Joon to the moon and back, so I hope you enjoy the ride as always 😄 (Image cr.)

Sub!BTS Masterlist / Read it on AO3

The icy road won’t let your shoes find any grip. One step, two steps, three grueling steps. It feels like moving backward. Each movement is ungrateful, much like the temperature at dusk that creeps into your limbs, further slowing down the walk. You remember Jin’s words at the gas station: Walk like a penguin and you won’t slip. It seems like the most ridiculous thing to do, but it works. There’s nobody else here to laugh at it anyway.

The subtle cracking under your boots becomes the only sound in the valley after the clattering noise from the last train to Juneau fades. The echo in these valleys can become rather strong if only one is just loud enough. But the silence is even louder, making every step eerier than ever. A brown dot in the distance comes into sight when the wind carries away some snow.

After the penguin waddles got you closer to the spot, a snowy roof appears from the blur of white.

You pat the small chest pocket of your coat twice. Yes, the key is still there. It takes some time until your efforts to free the lock from snow come to fruition. Then, you fumble at the chest pocket for what feels like two minutes because your gloves are too chunky to grab the key. It drops from your grasp right away.

You have to collect it from a heap of virgin snow that keeps moving under the heavy wind. It’s too much for the gloves to handle. Eventually, they become wet at the fingertips.

You should have listened to wise Jin. He said that lamb fur was not 'the most persistent material in these conditions'. Nevertheless, you pick up the key with confidence. You can't change the fact that you're wearing them right now. And the gloves don’t really matter when you’ll be warm in a minute.

The lodge is supposed to have a nice fireplace, a humongous oven, even a sofa. The prospect makes you feel cozy already, placing the key at the lock to push in with a hopeful mind. Once, twice. It doesn’t work. You flip the key by 180 degrees and try again. Thrice this time. It doesn’t even go half in, nor does it turn one bit. Banging at the won’t help to free the lock. It’s iced up from the inside out.

Fuck.

Instead of encountering a rear entrance around the corner, you only find a large stack of chopped wood. Jin likely prepared it two weeks ago, knowing you would stay here for two days before continuing your trip to Alaska. It’s an orderly stack, no wood out of place. It’s almost like... stairs. Stairs! It might have been unintentional, but the window right above the stack appears to be slightly tilted. Jin, you genius.

You climb up fast to reach the spot, some pieces of wood tumbling aside. The tilt of the window allows you to reach inside with one glove off, turning the handle. Click. The window opens with a creak while more wood falls down underneath you, so you are forced to slip in as quickly as possible. The landing is soft: Carpet.

You close the window with the help of a nearby broomstick and hurry to get the fireplace and oven going. It’s tedious work, but some pieces of wood are already in there — again, freshly chopped.

The tilted window left the lodge freezing cold even with a bit of snow inside. At least, the sofa is as comfortable as Jin had promised, inviting you with quite a couple of pillows and blankets. The heat distributes from the floor upwards while the sun sets. Your hands feel much better now that the damned wet gloves are off, dangling near the fireplace to dry.

There are some candles to light up at what is supposed to be the dinner table, a large oak trunk sliced in half and led out horizontally around four smaller trunks that serve as seats. The lighting is decent, but not sufficient given how late it is. You leave your coat and heavy shoes on while sitting on the sofa, watching flames tongue at the wood blocks.

Maybe the fire will get a little brighter when you wait. You didn't travel all the way from Juneau not to have a luminous evening now. Your relatives have made fun of you doing such a trip already, you'll prove them wrong and say when you arrive: Canada's great, no matter how icy it is.

It's not a good idea to doze off like that but you need rest, but also warmth. So you make sure to slightly tilt the window at the other side of the lodge to let in fresh air. If there's something you don't plan on doing during this vacation, it's dying because of carbon monoxide poisoning. You pass out fast between blankets and pillows, hoping that the lock would be easier to handle tomorrow.

A large rumble interrupts your sleep just when the fire starts to diminish. The entire valley echoes a thunderous boom, akin to an earthquake. It's terrifying. The sound gets you up at the blink of an eye.

You need to get out of here. If the roof collapses, you don't stand a chance.

The lock defrosted, but the door is still hard to open because of the snow pile outside. You push until the slit is broad enough to exit, almost tripping since the snow has been getting firmer with the falling evening degrees. Now you see where the rumble was coming from.

A giant blue truck has stopped just a few feet away.

There’s a cursing, lanky guy in a huge fur coat walking around it with a lantern. And in the distance, you see the respective truck trailer in the vicinity of the valley slope. But something's not right. In the scarce gleam of the lantern, you realize why.

It’s turned upside down.

The man adjusts his cap in surprise when you approach and yell through the wind.

“You lost your trailer?!”

“Where the hell did you come from?”

He's got a deep voice that's almost too hard to hear. The lantern shifts to your direction completely now. You step closer.

“The lodge, shall I contact—”

You can see his face now. Stern eyes. Strong jaw and brows. Tan, with bits of dark hair sticky against his forehead.

It's a grimace of sheer fury.

“I have one less problem when you’re not here. Go, just go away!”

He gestures, pointing at you, then to the house. “I’ll do this myself. You’ve seen nothing here. Go!”

Now he spins around on his heel. You can't even reply, he's so fast.

Back at the truck, he rummages in the driver’s cab, back turned to you.

“Headquarters! Headquarters, where are you? 5-0-6, 5-0-6 calling!”

He keeps repeating it, but there’s nobody answering on the radio set. The guy seeks to go on walking around the scene inspecting the trailer, and more insults follow. Only a few sentences and you know practically everyone he ever hated.

Only a rumble from the mountains comes as a response.

Much more severe than what you heard earlier when the crash happened. Against the cutting wind, you scream that you don’t care about his company messing up the trailer safety check, or the headquarters, or that everyone in the world is an asshole, and that he should come in. But he keeps roaming about. You go after him, drag him by the arm.

"Don't you understand? You shouldn't be here!"

He rips his arm away. His coat is hard to grasp.

“Come on...!”

He’s heavy and churning.

“Let me be, you can’t hel—”

He pushes you away. The rumble from the mountain turns louder, making him flinch and look upwards. You slap him across the face. Hard. It doesn't hurt, you can't feel your fingers in the cold anyway. But he can.

“Follow me fuckwit, now!”

He stumbles, ends up covered in snow. You fail to drag him up again in a last effort. He's too tall and massive.

The avalanche has almost reached the bottom of the valley when you shove, no, kick him past the doorstep and turn the key. Whatever caused him to get back up, it must have been a miracle.

Minute after minute passes with him and you jammed together at the ground, enduring the shaking, the roar outside. The lodge is still for seconds, but when you get up, another quake brings you down. He’s wincing next to you, coiled up inside the coat. When the roar subsides, none of you dares to rise for minutes on end. Once you dare to, he still remains cowering.

“Come on up, that was that,” you point to the sofa for him to sit. He bucks on the ground, then heaves himself up with the help of both arms. When he sits down on the couch, it feels like he collapses under the seeming weight of a metric ton.

“You were right. I’m a dumbass.”

He shifts in the pillows, rubbing his temples. “That was the worst case scenario.”

“Twice for me,” you grumble, “It’s my second day in Canada and I have more common sense than a trucker? What’s your name, anyways?”

“Namjoon. I’m actually a rookie driver.”

“You meant accident driver! You almost got both of us dead and frozen! Aren’t you supposed to have enough training beforehand to do this?”

“The shock. I, I messed up everything. I’m sorry. My job is history.”

“That’s the only thing you’re worried about?”

“Yes, I mean, no! I’m glad you did that.”

“Won’t do it again. Now you stay here and don’t move an inch.”

“Listen, I’m really grateful, I—”

“Just wait here. You look like a fucking wax figure. Unlucky devil. I'm Y/N.”

He nods, tries to wipe his face more than once with the back of his hand. You browse the back of the room to search for what you wanted to look for earlier, but were too tired.

Well. Now you aren't anymore.

The kitchen has quite a few supplies, in fact. Pots, tinned food, even bread. Some pieces of pastry with either almonds or raisins. Bless Jin.

“We can’t do anything now,” you shrug, “might as well have a can of soup.”

Namjoon only mumbles. He doesn't look any less jazzed. If the lodge had a bathtub, you would have him submerged there with whiskey in the water to get some life into him. Who knows how he managed to make his trailer break loose like that.

The pot heats quickly on the oven, it’s only a matter of two minutes. Soon, a scent of chicken, peas, and spicy pepper spreads in the room. After tossing two more blocks of wood into the fireplace, you find cutlery and crockery in a slightly lopsided cupboard and take two each. Once the two serves are ready, you pass him one, and he snaps out of his paralysis. Sort of. You feel a bit more lenient.

“Here. Sorry I blamed you. Neither was your fault.”

“It’s not that I didn’t provoke fate, don’t say that.”

He stirs the soup, hasty, then begins to spoon it.

“Don’t burn yourself just now.”

“I’ll be careful,” Namjoon slurps, “just feeling very done for, don’t really care.”

Once he’s finished, he waits for your last sip shifting around more, then rushes to clean up the kitchen. He persists putting everything back to its original place and make up for your efforts. You can't stop him. Needing to keep himself occupied, it seems to you. He returns to the couch even more exhausted, not knowing how to compose himself. No eye contact.

“Your clothes,” you seize him up a second time, “get these off, you’re soaked from head to toe. I’ll get you bundled up. The fire’s warm enough now.”

“Right. Right. Good idea, actually.”

His nose and cheeks are twice as rosy than before now, but drenched in cold sweat. The cap comes off, so does the coat. The heavy boots — unlaced.

He’s wearing one thick knit of a sweater and bulky jeans with pockets all over. All wetted by snow, too. You turn away to get a blanket while he strips down to his boxers entirely. Before he’s wrapped up, you find yourself gazing at his body more than once. You won't say anything but he caught the glance.

"What?"

"Do you really wanna know?"

"By, uh, all means?"

“Good-looking for a fuckup.”

"Me?"

"No, I'm talking about Santa Claus. Of course!"

“Oh, thanks I—”

“Nevermind the blanket if you dare.” You nudge his shoulder. His cheeks get even rosier. "Hey. Just kidding," you giggle, and have him wrapped up as promised.

Still, the feeling between your legs won’t betray you.

“Do you... like me?” he fiddles at his thighs ever so awkwardly. It’s hard to believe he was cussing like a sailor outside just minutes ago.

“Can't leave you guessing, babe. As I said." You tug at his hips now. "That blanket can go back to where it came from. Or above us, it's always warmer together. Fancy it?”

He hesitates to answer. But when you smile at him, his dimples form, too.

“I do, Y/N. Above, I mean.”

You get on the couch yourself and lead him downwards, horizontal, by his arm just ever so lightly. The pillows then welcome you, too, huddled tightly by his side. You can feel his heartbeat in staccato. He nods when you ask him whether he’d enjoy a bit more than just cuddles.  

“Rather be doing that than messing around outside. We have plenty of time to kill. Your trailer isn't going anywhere.”

“Plenty, what do you wanna do?”

He tempts with one gaze that you think was supposed to be challenging, predatory. But when you pinch his side, it fades faster than it came.

“Plenty of time to make you and me feel like we’re halfway warm again. I’m snowed in on vacation. You shredded your entire cargo. We almost died. Sounds stressful enough for me.”

“Gotta let loose I guess.”

“Why not make a fuckup a real fuck, then?”

"Y/N..."

"Want me to give it to you good?"

Now you poke his dimples, and think they look fascinating.

“Have virtually nothing against it. Just a bit, um...”

"Yes, Joon?"

"Nervous. Sorry about that."

"No problem, don't mind it. Kinda like that, actually."

You trail your hand down his chest, but hardly is it in a hurry. Each inch is worth it. Namjoon is so well-built. He’s just ridiculous, isn’t he.

Outside, the mountains start to grumble again. He flinches.

“Hush, don’t listen.” You bite at his ear, which is surprisingly small for his height. “We’re gonna make this better. Not worse.”

“I’m still afraid,” Namjoon says and buries his head in the nape of your neck. He feels less tense when you plant a little kiss at the crown of his head.

You get a certain thought at that.

“It's okay. We’re gonna play a hot game if you like."

"Hot game?"

"It's a bit risky."

"What's that about? I'm not going outside again."

You shake your head.

"No need. Wanna know the rules?"

"If it's that hot. I mean, sure?"

"I’ll count to hundred. If you can make me cum twice, you get a reward.”

“O-okay.”

"Only hands or mouth allowed. Just my clit and you. Nothing else."

"But why... twice? Only hundred, Christ!"

“If it’s only once, I’ll tease you to bits. But you can’t finish. Twice is a better accomplishment.”

“Fair enough.”

“And,” you nibble at his ear, “If you can’t make me cum at all, you get punished and have to try again. Join the game or leave the game, Fuckup?”

Namjoon goes entirely red when you lower the hem of your pants.

A risky game.

Why not? A little heat like that is fine for a trucker. It’s a little cruel, too. Oddly enough, he likes that quite a lot.

Body faster than any thought, his tongue sneaks out to cover his lips in saliva, but he quickly realizes they won’t stay dry anyways. Not with the prospect of 100 seconds. His head nods a sultry yes.

Namjoon’s lip begins to waver, ever so slowly, but accelerate at the way you intonate the numbers.

“Fifteen, sucker!”

His ears are warm indeed now. You love his lips, they’re like little pillows. And shiny as you briefly see when he emerges as 20. He catches a breath. Too long, because you approach 25. He's trying hard to provide the stimulation.

“Halfway through for the first one! 28!”

Now his hands sneak up. Finally. He gave up his delusion, or say, found what you wanted. Those long, sturdy fingers. The veins, like serpentines around his knuckles. Finger cups, soft but still potent to deliver a strong pressing against your clit. Perhaps too strong. Too inexperienced. He misses the spot a few times. He’s sweating more. The number is 45. In desperation, he switches to tongue again.

Satisfy.

Why can’t I satisfy her. Stupid trucker, do it right. Do at least one thing right today. Are you a man or not?

A painful tug at his hair gets him back to reality when 60 approaches. He’s grateful for the hint, but his tongue won’t function anymore. His lips are coated wet, plump, thumping, and your scent becomes intoxicating to his mind. 71, and he still pokes around aimlessly. 72. 73. He brings up one hand to aid his tongue, parts your folds ready to thrust and lock two fingers inside. But then, Namjoon remembers: No penetration allowed. 78, 79.

Approaching 82, he rubs his palm flat against your pubic bone downwards. It does the trick, the familiar tingle wanders down your abdomen. You’re so wet. But that makes his hand slide off, and he needs more pressure to bring it in place, which makes it even more slippery.

“91, baby boy.”

And you don't count very fast. He’s groaning. The strength in his arm starts to fade. You can tell by how he slows down at 94, but still won’t give up using his tongue. He shoves and shoves, shoves it forward and sidewards, and still: the right spot escapes his prodding. The tension of your thighs around his head is none the stronger. How he wishes it was.

He wants to feel you climax and moan and wind, and scream, by now he’s frantically sucking and grinding his face between your legs, one orgasm! One orgasm, that’s it! He’ll do it! And finally, satisfy—

“Hundred. Game over!”

Nothing.

Satisfy absolutely nothing. Your legs part slightly to release him.

He pulls off eyes downcast. How ludicrous that must have looked like, he can’t even bring forth an apology. Even if his lips have moved more in the last minutes than the last two months on the training road combined.

“Just punish me, Y/N.”

Do I even deserve that? I'm a real fuckwit loser.

“I have sympathies now seeing you worked so much.”

“No punishment?”

“Oh, my baby fool.” You tickle his chin and pick up a bit of the warm drops from there. “More sympathies means stronger punishment, didn’t you know?”

“Then, do it as hard as you can. I’ll take it.”

“No, I won’t.”

“Y/N, I don’t understand.”

“You’ve done the due already without me doing anything. Humiliated yourself enough, didn’t you? Look me in the eye!”

“Sorry...”

“When someone asks for punishment, it truly isn’t one. Punishment has to hurt more than that. It won’t make you feel good. You just took my job.”

That alone almost got you off. But you’ll teach him a lesson today. That means: Self-control.

Namjoon scrambles in the pillows and manages to pull up his glance.

“Kind of. Yes. Maybe I did.”

“Come here, I’ll show you how to do it right.”

Namjoon doesn’t look any less shameful at that. But he comes close to where you beckon him into his embrace. He leans his head against your chest visibly hesitating, but follows at the guidance of your palm at the back of his neck. Namjoon’s heartbeat is still going wild, you can feel it now.

“Won’t humiliate you further after this,” you smooch his sweaty cheek. “You’ll find out how I really come with just a lil’ pointer.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve been forcing yourself into being tough and sloppy for 100 seconds straight, didn’t you?”

Namjoon becomes taciturn at that. Still, he nods.

“What I want to see,” and you tap his chest saying that, “is how you are... naturally. Who said you can’t use your hands and mouth elsewhere? My body’s not just one pleasure point and that’s it. You think I'll ever be contented like that in a million years and beyond? I'm a woman. I want more. I want it all, baby, don't you know!”

“O-Oh. I should have—”

“Wanna give it a go again? I think you know what to do. No shoulds and woulds now. Remember the rules.”

“Yes, Y/N.”

So good. The fingers of his left hand are intertwined with your hair, brushing softly just above the scalp when he decides to move them around a bit to explore. It brings back a distant memory.

Going to the barber’s shop in the small town you grew up in. Nothing about their service was cheap, so your parents couldn’t let you go often. Every visit was like entering heaven anew each time you stepped in on a Thursday afternoon. The chubby coiffeur was always friendly, and you loved the sound of his green scissors, the razors, the jasmine shampoo kneaded into your locks. The salon would always be filled with happy people looking at their transformations from all angles, a scent of bleach or hairspray, and Tango music blasting from the stereo in the other room where an apprentice would mix colors and move his hips to the beat thinking nobody would hear and see. There were no worries at that time. The world was okay. You'd even spend a bit of your pocket money for a massage. His hands bring you back to the days, with all the goosebumps and tingles in the same spots. He knows how to move them just right. Namjoon.

Who keeps on whispering in your ear, and trailing his other hand across your belly. All the sensitive places covered and cherished. Slowly pulling off the rest of your clothing. 22. 23.

“I love your body,” he says. “It’s smart like you. And beautiful.”

Namjoon’s lips trace your jawline, upwards, downwards, then return to your ear.

“Can I kiss you, madam?”

“Go ahead, darlin’.”

You barely reach 40 and his lips are indulging your tongue. One hand caressing your back, the other roaming your breasts. It feels like your spine is infused with a fresh, bubbling feeling that lingers the more his lips do their work. They feed back the nectar that they picked up between your thighs so expertly. It's astonishing. You wonder how he didn’t do this earlier. And he seems to catch up on the same thought, too.

He must have figured you like his veins because you get a good view of them. Going in circles on your breasts. While his mouth makes slow, repeated contact with your clit, seemingly ignorant that you’re approaching 65. At 70, his tongue fucks past the damp folds leading upwards to the tender place where his tip stops and plants almost little electrical impulses.

Your clit is so swollen, wherever he brings his tongue up it will contact and give a feeling that you convulse with so much excitement. While his hands continue their magical work at your waist, your hips, your ass. Even your calves and feet. 78, 79. Freaking Namjoon’s hands. Hands, hands, hands, fucking hands. Your skin has never felt more exalted.

“You’re perfect, Miss,” he mumbles into you, intertwines his fingers with yours. "Thank you for picking me up outside."

81, 82. Shit. Your body is on fire.

Namjoon keeps on bringing his tongue forward and alternates with kisses. And then, he directs his thumb between your legs. Gently massaging. Small, dainty pokes. It’s like pushing a button to tip you off the glaring edge. He whispers.

“And I like you, too.”

99.

You’re cumming. So good. So hard. So fucking hard. You’re sorry for his ears, but your legs cramp together so fervently around his head, his exhale is louder than yours. All signs are on fuck it. Your hips jerk and all cum dribbles out. Ruining his face, his hair. The sharp brows, the gorgeous dimpled smile. If another avalanche would come to be your frosty grave now, it wouldn't matter.

You’ve stopped counting by the time you slip on his dick with a condom barely on. Did he get that from the gas station? You’ll never know. Judging by the way he twitches, you know how long this trailer hasn’t seen a parking lot for all that heavy, bulging freight. He’s so nervous. He's so sexy. With that deep voice. That perfect dark hair. It’s getting ecstatic.

If you wanna bounce on him, you’ll do it properly, gradual and sloppy, even if your mind says go and screw his soul out... wherever that trucker soul is, his balls? They need to be crushed, they need to be ruined, you want it all.

The condom eventually bows to your pace and stays where it should, much like Namjoon who looks like he froze completely being so tense. Only your name comes from his lips, over and over. They are trembling, but not because he's cold. Not with that temperature in the room. The friction is just too much, no matter how much he concentrates to keep his hands on you where they tingle. No, he fumbles at your thighs, then returns back to stimulating your sensitive place, and the faint thought returns to you.

The second orgasm.

It already approaches. If it could melt the snow outside with all its heat, it would. Those fingers really do the rest.

He was right that your body is smart.

Being smart means knowing what’s good for you. And, what is that?

Gushing all over his cock and groaning like it’s the last time. Game won. Well, kind of. If you can come on his dick like that and engulf him whole, own him whole, squeeze him whole, the rules are best discarded. The release is so heavenly. You feel so real and satisfied. He did so well. Very well for a fuckup, in fact. All to be smudged and blighted by the spill of your jizz, and it's so pretty on his shaft. You wouldn’t have thought that this emotion would be so powerful after all.

It’s his words that keep on repeating themselves, and they drive you wild. He likes you, too. The scent of pepper and smoke in the room becomes so much more clear in your sensation, ultimately, before blurring into the familiar picture. A winter’s white desert before your eyes. If only it would last forever. Who would have known how capable he is, that charmer, to make you come.

The condom is chucked in a random corner.

You feel funny just lying there sticky talking about how you must have looked like kicking and yelling at each other earlier. But well, there is nobody else to laugh at you here. Maybe just the moon and the stars outside. Cackling how two idiots could get stuck in a lodge like this. At least, they are silent. Maybe that is eerie, but then again, Namjoon is next to you. His presence is comforting. He doesn’t snore and burp like you thought he would, or pull out a giant cigar to huff himself to sleep humming country songs. But it would have suited the atmosphere inside.

You are hungry again, but too lazy to get up. So late, so exhausted, and you're stuck here for longer anyways. No urgency. Time to sleep says the rest of your body save the stomach, and the stars go on giggling by themselves. They know it. Humans are all complete morons.

Namjoon wakes up with the messiest, sexiest hair you’ve ever seen. And, is that a beard coming out? You must be mistaken.

He says he must have tossed and turned, oh lord is he grumpy, but you don’t recall him being such a restless sleeper when you briefly got up at dawn. The toilet in the lodge was indeed prepared like you suspected, because Seokjin won’t fear getting his hands dirty. At this point, you feel like paying him for all the work he’s done. And the foresight. You're almost sure he gave Namjoon condoms for free. It's not hard to imagine how he realized what a hot piece of fuck was arriving at the gas station in his damn coat. And that sailor mouth, which you now think deserves better than calling it just that.

You get your breakfast together, set up the table, Namjoon does most of the work even if his mood isn’t the best and his clothes aren't completely dry. Who knows how long the food will last while you are stuck here, so he creates smaller rations. A bit of bread today. A bit later. It’s like a small lump on your plates.

You talk about how many miles he needed to drive to get to Alberta where a promotion waits. Well, would wait. And how you'll likely be way too behind on schedule now to continue the vacation. You can scrap it all if you can't reach the next station. The bread is only a small consolation, but you know that past counting to hundred and having fun to get a bit warmer you are in serious trouble. Two unlucky devils in one spot, and you can drink to that. Dreams are but shadows.

But before you can dig in, a brazen knock interrupts the conversation.

The door.

Which you thought would have been blocked entirely by night. But it's not. It's half open. A voice reverberates outside, again, accompanied by several other knocks.

“506? You in there? It’s 507! Got your signal last night! Manager Hyuna sent us!”

“It's you! Hobi!”

Namjoon hurries to the door. Opening it, a bunch of rugged-looking truckers welcome you with their shovels. Namjoon can’t help himself, he starts jumping around. The trucker with the cap standing at the door greets you with a nonchalant handshake. He's devastatingly sexy.

“Hi! Jung Hoseok, went to the academy with Joon. And these handsome chaps here: Yoongi, Tae, JK. We'll get you two wherever ya need to be. We got someone to clear the area, too.”

Well.

Canada's great.

No matter how icy it is.

Thank you for reading! | Do not repost or translate.